


Deadly Daddies

by kiera81487



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Family, M/M, Mpreg, Suspense, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-23 08:16:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21317023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiera81487/pseuds/kiera81487
Summary: Ian and Mickey are just like any couple raising a family…Aren’t they?
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 7
Kudos: 39





	Deadly Daddies

**Author's Note:**

> The only note I’m sharing in this fic is an entirely self motivated recommendation of “It’s Just Nothing,” by Pisces21Red. I’m neither connected to the author nor story, and, honestly, not even sure they’re still a part of the fandom. I am merely someone who read the story, a while back, and it left me so awestruck, it planted the seed this story grew from. 
> 
> Our stories are quite different, but they do represent versions of Ian and Mickey and genres writers of this OTP rarely use. Thinking outside the box strengthened my creative muscle by forcing me to build a new world, instead of standing inside my comfort zone. I am enjoying the process and hope you do, as well. 
> 
> Thanks for reading.

Mickey huffs in frustration. He’s half asleep and desperate for a more comfortable position, legs and hips seeking cooler sheets to no avail. Beside him, Ian’s snoring and content, face smushed in his pillow. Mickey wants to punch him until he looks as fucked up as Mickey feels. 

And now he has to piss. Jesus Christ…

Bladder emptied, Mickey can tell his eyes are gonna stay as open as a hooker’s mouth at a truck stop and heads down to the kitchen. He builds a sky scraping club sandwich with a side of kettle chips and tiny dill pickles. He’s gonna conduct a crunch concerto right in the middle of Ian’s bitchass blissful slumber. Ooh, and he’s def catching up on _Mindhunter_. 

Not nearly enough hours later, something small, cold, and slimy lands on Mickey’s face, jolting him awake. “What the f—“

“Daddy, you was dead?” his three-year-old giggles. Her tiny face presses against his, blue eyes wide and excited. 

“No. Dead people get to rest .” Mickey wipes his cheek and peels away a squirming black blob. “Borden, what did Dad and I tell you about your leeches?” 

“Da leeshess go on basemin’ people,” she recites with a pout, only to suddenly perk up in that Jekyll/Hyde manner mastered by little kids, “But, but Daddy! Fluffy wants ta give you kissies!” Borden adorably puckers her lips and chubby cheeks. 

Mickey chuckles. Nothing keeps him more present than his kids. He finds child rearing to be a balancing act. On one side, he attempts to instill values, awareness, and structure. Over on the other, he wants to ensure his kids also experience endless love, fun, and passion. That constant juggling can also create moments where he’s stuck in the middle. For instance, despite currently being in the middle of reinforcing the house rules with their temperamental tot, all Mickey wants is to kiss every square inch of her face. 

And so he does.

Borden squeals in delight at the surprise kiss attack, surrendering to her Daddy’s strong arms as she half dangles over the side of his bed. 

“Here,” Mickey opens his hand where the leech sits, “go put Fluffy back in your jar.” Borden makes sure she’s steady on her feet again, then picks up her leech with all the care a small child has for a beloved pet. 

Mickey wipes the leech residue on his boxer briefs, then checks his phone. It’s later than he usually starts his day, but he’s damn grateful for any extra shuteye Ian lets him steal. He hoists himself up, stretching knots from his back. 

Inside their walk-in closet, Mickey notices racks of freshly dry cleaned work clothes, different from the ones that hung there yesterday. He recognizes they’re mostly paternity clothes he’s amassed over the years, mixed with a few newer pieces. Mickey shakes his head at Ian’s thoughtfulness, not shocked his husband noticed his pregnancy hit the “special size” threshold. Not having clients or any conferences today, he opts for a simple, business casual shirt and slacks combo. Moving it to hang in the dressing area, he hits the shower. 

Soon after, Mickey enters their chaotic kitchen. Ian’s at the state of the art stove Mickey still considers an overkill purchase, happily choreographing multiple burners and pots with practiced ease. The kids are hijacking the breakfast table. Conversations outnumber mouths as lips and devices fire away. 

Their black cat, Plagues, pounces onto the elaborate black and grey marble island when she sees Mickey nearing. Picking her up by her scruff, Mickey brings them face to face to scold her, “Stop climbing on my fucking counters, bitch!” He raises a threatening eyebrow only to tuck her in his arms and keep walking. Plagues purrs and rubs her head under his chin, most unbothered—and victorious—after the showdown. 

Walking across the kitchen, Mickey sidles up to Ian, powered by the desire and love naturally felt for a good partner. Ian’s bedhead and water-sprayed pajamas tell Mickey his husband rose early to tackle daddy-duty on his own: awakening, grooming, and, now, feeding their kids. Mickey’s mouth finds Ian’s neck. The other man’s eyes close, leaning into the touch. Feeling Ian’s warm skin under his lips sets Mickey’s body on fire, but this is neither the time nor the place for more. 

Ian’s biceps flex as he whisks eggs into a bowl of batter. “Yum,” Mickey whispers in his ear. He tugs the lobe between his teeth with enough pressure to make Ian breathe deep. Ian looks at Mickey with bedroom eyes filled with nothing but dirty promises for later. “Looks good on you,” he nods approvingly at Mickey’s grey and white pinstriped shirt. 

“You look better on me,” Mickey wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. After a few soft pecks he’s off again, Plagues’ fat ass still lounging in his arms.

Mickey reaches the round, crowded table by the corner bay window. It’s flooded in natural light with a view of the garden. His daughters are all seated. They’re dressed in warm robes and slippers, red hair slightly damp and brushed in various styles. As he’s done for years, Mickey lovingly greets his brood, “Top of the morning, demon spawns.” 

Their six-year-old twin daughters, Dahmer and Kemper, stand on their chairs in unbelievable synchronization to bellow “Morning, Daddy!” They each have one blue and one green eye and wavy red hair. They grin with identical glee once Mickey’s near enough for their four little arms to wrap around his neck. He only needs one of his, though, to hug and pull their petite bodies to him and kiss their temples. The smell of their citrus kiddie conditioner hits him in soft wafts. Once released, they squat lower to yell “HI BABY!” at Mickey’s belly, then each rests an ear over his shirt to listen for a response. These two are their curious explorers. While Dahmer is a bit more outspoken than Kemper, both are eager to dig deep and figure out the mysteries hiding beneath. 

“The gremlin’s sleeping, guys,” Mickey informs them.

Disappointed by the lack of action, the twins shrug and sit back down. As they resume the zombie show they’re watching on their tablet and munch on fresh fruit, Mickey can’t help but feel like the target of some unsaid accusation. 

“Good morning, again, mini-millipede,” Mickey tickles their wild-child, Borden, just to hear her giggle. Plagues’ paw takes a swat at her long braid, but Mickey’s already moving away before she makes contact. 

Nine-year-old Bundy hugs Mickey around his belly. “Morning, Daddy,” she looks up at him. She has Ian’s eyes and sweet smile. He smiles back and kisses the crown of her head. She’s their gentle child. Soft spoken, even in the midst of this noise factory, she’s also thoughtful, loving, and calm under pressure. He drops Plagues on her lap commenting he “ain’t no pussy Uber”, then drops himself down in the chair between Bundy and his eldest, Gacy.

At twelve, Gacy almost matches Mickey’s height, thanks to Ian’s goddamn giraffe genes. As the rebel of the pack, she’s Mickey to the core, patented blue eyes to match. They share their made up handshake, her black nails and his black knuckle tats a complementary contrast to their pale hands. 

“_Another_ dye job, G?” Mickey ruffles Gacy’s blood red hair.

“_Another_ baby?” she points at his belly. Smart ass. 

“Take it up with your dad; he keeps putting kids in me.

”But your bathroom better not look like a fucking massacre,” Mickey points at her, “or your ass is on solo basement cleanup until Santa nuts are roasting in our fireplace.” 

Gacy rolls her eyes, already over it. “Dad,” she calls over to Ian who’s busy plating their breakfast, “your husband’s doing it again.”

“Doing what, pumpkin?”

“Parenting.”

Ian chuckles. Mickey slaps the back of Gacy’s head. He picks up a ripe plum from the fruit bowl centerpiece and bites almost half the small fruit in one shot. While chomping and slurping away, he forgot about the light color work shirt he was wearing and looks down in a frenzy, worried there’d be plum juice staining it. To his relief it’s still stain-free, so he greedily finishes the sweet plum.

“Lil’ shit. What kinda redhead spends money on red hair dye, anyway?” Mickey mocks Gacy. 

“Oh my god…,” Gacy drops her head to the table, “I cannot. It’s self-expression. I’m embracing my individuality,” she educates Mickey, “Y’know, coming into my womanhood?”

“Ian, your daughter’s doing it again,” Mickey gets up to help his husband carry plates to the table.

“What?”

“Breathing,” Mickey glares back at Gacy, smirking as she scowls at him. 

“Do crickets breeve?” Borden pipes up from her coloring book.

“Yes. _Why_?” Mickey asks with narrowed eyes. With Borden, one must always investigate. All he gets in return, though, is a smile and shrug from her. He and Ian share a knowing look, but proceed with getting breakfast to the table. 

“Orders up! All non-food related items off your placemats, please!” Ian serves his family with the usual flourish they’re accustomed to him exhibiting. He’s certainly the domesticated one in the relationship, but, in a family of their size and _interests,_ both understand they occasionally have to operate outside their comfort zones. 

Once each kid’s fussy requests are met and mouths are busy eating, Ian and Mickey sit down to dig in themselves. The conversation turns generic. The dads remind everyone of the school and after school pick-up schedule for the day ahead. Years of practice have proven the details will only take an express through some ears, but it helps to spell out details. Bellies filled, the next few minutes are a tornado of teeth brushing, putting on school uniforms, and piling kids into the family’s black SUV. Ian sips his coffee out front, watching them pull out the driveway only to stop after a few feet. Mickey rushes up to Ian, scowling. He hands him a bag of chirping crickets, confiscated from Borden’s book-bag. How Mickey heard the insects over their kids and the radio is a mystery. They roll their eyes then kiss goodbye a second time. 

Arriving at the consulting firm where he works as an Enrolled Agent, Mickey swipes his keycard to enter the tax department offices. He settles in at his desk and logs in to the firm’s tax software once his monitors boot up.

**Mickey: Gotta sort out this basement shit today. Feel it’s crazy this time. Maybe start training Gacy??? **

**Ian: I’ll check after I clean kitchen u little piggies trashed! 😜**

**Mickey: I’ve warned you about emojing me. We’re grown ass men.**

**Ian: 👨❤️👨**

**Mickey: Gay. **

**Ian: 👅🍆💦🍆**

**Ian: Now THATS gay! 😂**

**Mickey: No that’s nonsense. About to block you. **

**Ian: 🥺**

**Ian: 😭**

**Ian: 🥴**

**Mickey: BYE FOREVER **

**Ian: 😁 **

**Ian: ** **I’ll keep u in the basement loop. ** **And agree G can do** **more but let’s hear how she feels. **

**Ian: I need 😴. Sleeping with this guy who eats late night snacks in bed and has a ton of kids. **

**Mickey: Write it in your diary, Moesha. Love you. **

**Ian: 🥰**

Mickey rolls his eyes. It’s gonna be a long ass day, both here in the office and at home. He hopes he and Ian can handle what lies ahead of them. 

As Mickey feared, Ian’s update confirms the basement is at capacity. They’ll have to restock supplies and dedicate long hours to clear it out. They hash out a rough plan and decide to have a chat with Gacy during their nightly “Goodnight Rounds”. 

That night, they work in their usual order: last born, first down. Borden insists on walking them to her scorpion tank to wish each one “sweet ice creams”. Mickey is far from surprised to learn there‘s a ‘Fluffy’ among that gang, too. They carry her to her bed, then squeeze in on either side to read _The Very Hungry Caterpillar. _The story leaves her torn on whether she prefers caterpillars or butterflies. She exclaims she wants a big beautiful butterfly that only crawls. Neither man dares unpack the flaws in her contradictory thought. 

Dahmer and Kemper are deep into a co-fascination with grave exhumations. Mickey and Ian are instructed by the twins to tuck them in one at a time. Next, the other twin counts to ten and uncovers her sister, noting her imaginary decomposition by clapping “Yay! Your skin is all gone’d!” Ian makes a corny joke about them working the graveyard shift which sets off Dahmer and Kemper into full body cackles. Mickey watches three of the loves of his life getting their laugh on, worried bad jokes can be genetically inherited. Tomorrow, he decides, the kids will be watching old Bernie Mac stand-up all morning long. 

Bundy’s room is the quietest. They find her curled around a book, headboard reading light on, speakers emitting low, relaxing music. “What you reading tonight?” Mickey sits beside her, trying to relieve the pressure on his back muscles. 

“_The Psychology of a Disarming Predator_. It’s a study on how people who use charm, polite mannerisms, faux interest, etc. to captivate prospective victims. 

“It dispels the common myth that force and violence are the most effective techniques for repeat killers. Making prey feel safe lowers their inhibitions, thus killers increase their likelihood for a successful hunt and kill, and decrease the risk of attracting unwanted attention.”

Mickey nods along. As is usually the case, Bundy makes complete sense. “Good shit. Bet you could write your own book on being charming. You’re sweeter than all my favorite candy.” Bundy blushes shyly at the compliment, smiling at her dads who each kiss her goodnight and make sure her blankets are folded down just so. 

“A few more pages, then lights out, Bun. You have to be rested for your debate tomorrow. Love you,” Ian pulls the door up behind them, leaving it slightly cracked. 

“Last up is the firstborn,” Mickey knocks on Gacy’s door decorated in her intricate carvings. One of the learning curves as men raising girls is respecting the threshold of puberty and their daughters’ rights to privacy. 

Gacy looks away from the bloody surgical procedure on her TV to turn to her dads. 

“Hey, tall dude. Round dude,” she jabs.

“Yeah, yeah. Just remember: you ruined my body first.”

“What can I say, a bitch is a born pioneer,” she brushes off her shoulder with swag. The Mandy-ness is uncanny in this girl. 

Ian moves closer to the screen, just as intrigued as his daughter by the program. “Is that a controlled disembowelment?”

“Yep! Dude’s still alive, but his insides on the outside.”

“So cool,” Ian sighs. 

“Alright, nerds,” Mickey interjects, sitting on her bed. “G, if you’re cool with it, we’d like you to work in the basement with us this weekend. It’s gonna be Halloween and Dad and I are backed up as fuck—‘tis the season, y’know—but it’s completely your call.”

Gacy’s face lights up. “Wait, you mean like _work_ work?! Not just chores?”

“Well, yeah,” Mickey nods. “The basement is serious work; not a playground. But you’re getting big and we see how responsible and dedicated you’ve been with little tasks down there. It’s a good time to start your official _supervised_ training.”

“The plan’s always been to involve all you girls down there,” Ian adds. “Plus we could really use the extra set of hands. “So, what d’you think, Madame Pioneer?”

“Yesyesyes! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” Gacy squeals, pouncing into her dads’ arms. The three embrace, Mickey and Ian filled with pride and happiness over witnessing another milestone in their precious daughter’s life. 

“We’ll iron out trick-or-treat details later, but Daddy and I probably won’t need you till after ten that night.” 

“Gotcha.” Gacy beams at them, mind flooded by how cool it’ll be to _finally_ get her hands dirty in her dads’ basement. 

Ian helps Gacy settle back into her bed. “Okay. Sleep well, baby girl.

“Oh!” he holds up his finger, “Apple picking trip. Permission slip and money are in your bag?…” Ian looks back at Mickey for verification. 

“Oh my god, Ian! I remembered to sign my name and fucking stuff twenty bucks in an envelope! Not that pregnant, yet,” Mickey rolls his eyes. 

“Whatever you say, Mick.

“Make sure you hand it in tomorrow.” Ian leans over to kiss Gacy’s cheek while she lets them baby her. They all know she’ll soon be too old for this attention, but fuck if Ian and Mickey know where the time went. 

“Love you, Kool-Aid head,” Mickey smooths her hair back. 

“Love you, Daddy. Love you, number six,” Gacy high fives his belly. Mickey feels a flutter in response. Of _course_ the new baby would already think she‘s cool. 

Mickey moans in sheer ecstasy as steaming hot water hits his tired lower back. The moment they stepped into their tech-savvy shower stall, he programmed the control panel to ‘Massage’. In no time, nozzles in the ceiling and side walls sprayed his back with intermittent pulsating force. 

All Mickey can do is close his eyes and moan. He’s at the stage where his belly’s heaviness is growing more pronounced, and, still, he’s nowhere near as big as he’ll be in the final stretch. He rests his hands on the shower’s front wall, gaining enough leverage to lean forward and expose more of his overworked body to the water. 

“Am I gonna have to kick our shower’s ass? ‘Cause you know that’s _exactly_ my brand of crazy.” Ian presses himself against Mickey’s ass. He’s been hard for Mickey all day. With the electricity of Halloween around the corner and feeling the call of the basement, Ian is surprised they don’t lock their door and fuck all day. 

“Easy, tough guy. Manuel is a lover, not a fighter.”

“_Manuel_?” Ian scoffs in confusion. “Our shower’s Latinx?” He runs a soapy washcloth over the back of Mickey’s neck and shoulders. Rubbing down the length of Mickey’s spine, Ian stops at his hips, watching the water pound Mickey’s flesh into a rosy pink. He wrings the excess soap from the cloth over Mickey’s ass, reveling in the white suds spilling over his juicy ass cheeks and into his crack. He feels the soap trickle down his dick and pool at both their feet. 

“Tryna get a threesome popping, Firecrotch? ‘Cause that’s _my_ brand of crazy.” Mickey looks behind him to find Ian entranced, giving his ass his undivided attention. Ian’s dick is slipping between his crack, the head nudging his hole before sliding back up and peeking over the top. 

Mickey reaches back a hand to grab at Ian’s thigh, needing their bodies to just fucking fuse. “You gonna take all this, Mick?” Ian taunts. He continues teasing his erection between Mickey’s crack while reaching for the water-resistant lube they keep on one of the shower shelves. Drizzling a generous amount over his fingers, Ian uses his other arm to block some of the water washing over Mickey’s body. He smears lube down the inside of Mickey’s crack then preps his hole. The tight clenching around his fingers mixed with the dirty words leaking from Mickey’s mouth motivate Ian to hurry up. He lowers his hand between Mickey’s legs, stroking his swelling dick. 

“While we’re still alive, bitch!” 

Used to Mickey’s impatience, Ian coats himself in lube, biting his lip at the sensation of the slick between them. He grips Mickey’s dick firmer, tugging it back, his thumb massaging Mickey’s perineum. 

Straightening his stance, Ian tosses the lube somewhere behind him and grabs Mickey’s hips. Without further preamble, Ian lines himself up with Mickey’s pinched hole and thrusts inside him. 

They both shout out on contact. For Mickey, being stretched by Ian’s thickness with the water dancing over his body is sensory overload. Ian wastes no more time and gives Mickey long strokes. He halts his thrusts just long enough to hook his arm around Mickey’s chest, forcing Mickey back and deeper on his dick. 

“Don’t be shy, baby,” the cocky son of a bitch jabs Mickey’s prostate. 

Mickey throws his arms behind him to fold around Ian’s neck. “Don’t call me ‘baby’, asshole.” Planting his feet, Mickey circles his hips and grinds down on Ian. Once he catches the right angle and rhythm, all bets are off. 

“Throw that ass back. Ride my big fucking dick,” Ian encourages Mickey to take control. 

Ian’s kissing and licking Mickey’s neck. One of his arms is safely holding Mickey upright, and the hand of the other is stroking Mickey’s dick. He’s giving back a thrust for every move Mickey gives him. Mickey calls this Ian’s “Orgy Octopus” mode: you’re fucking one of him, then you feel like the guest of honor at an eight man orgy. 

“Cum in me!” Mickey lays his head on Ian’s shoulder to bring their faces together. “Use me.” He’s desperate to devour Ian’s mouth as they grunt into a kiss. 

Ian’s hips and his hand on Mickey’s dick pump without abandon. “Cum for me, Mick. Gonna fill you up.” Their wet bodies slap loudly against each other. They’re a tangle of tongues and teeth and nips and licks and filthy primal noises. Ian’s scent permeates Mickey’s pregnant bloodhound nose, kicking his hormones into overdrive. He yanks Ian’s hair. Ian plows his ass, jerking Mickey off until his hand is coated in cum and Mickey is gasping for air. 

“Gonna destroy your ass,” Ian breathes in Mickey’s ear, hand roaming over Mickey’s belly and down the front of his thigh.

Mickey tries staying lucid to help push Ian over the edge of his orgasm. He slaps his hand on the shower monitor to change to ‘Rainfall’ mode in only two steps, needing to lighten the steamy air and forceful sprays. “Gimme’ your cum, Ian. Shoot it fucking deep,” he matches Ian’s erratic pace as water sprinkles their bodies. 

“Fucking cum whore,” Ian growls, death gripping Mickey’s thigh-meat. “Take it. Take it. Tak—” Ian cuts his own stuttering off with a cry, releasing deep inside Mickey. Mickey sighs in relief, taking Ian’s last involuntary thrusts in his over sensitized hole. 

Ian’s breathing recovers and they slowly unravel their bodies, allowing Ian’s dick and cum to slide out of Mickey. Mickey uses the hand shower to rinse their mess down the drain then reaches for a washcloth from the in-shower cabinet. He holds it under the touch-activated body wash dispenser. 

Mickey kisses Ian’s exhausted face and lathers his muscular chest. “‘Cum whore’, huh? That’s a new one,” he breaks his balls.

“Where’s the lie?” Ian caresses Mickey’s baby bump then snakes his arms behind him. He looks up at the ceiling shower heads as realization hits him. “_Rainfall?_ Did we just fuck in the rain? You going rom-cam now, Mick?” Ian laughs out loud at the absurdity. 

“You can be a big-dicked Julia Roberts. Make a whole _different _kinda _Pretty Woman_…” Mickey elaborates. 

”I wanna _Eat, Pray, Love_ this all night,” Ian’s palms rest on Mickey’s ass, locating the fullest part of it on autopilot. 

Ian traces Mickey’s lips with his tongue, but Mickey quickly moves his lips out of Ian’s orbit. “Pump those brakes. We’re actually gonna shower this time,” Mickey lifts his arms to scrub his own pits. Fuck whatever fuckathon Ian’s fantasizing, he just wants to clean off and get in bed so he can wake up tired. “I’m beat like prison dick, plus we have jobs and more kids than sense, and, thanks to tonight, a million dollar water bill to pay next month.”

“Fine. Turn around and I’ll _deep_ clean your ass for you… Señor Cum Whore,” Ian retorts, earning a sopping washcloth right to his goofy ass face. 

“Next time, cum in that,” Mickey suggests.


End file.
